


Pick Your Card

by thebirdlady



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M, PWP, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebirdlady/pseuds/thebirdlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric has long accepted that he would do anything for Hawke, but it takes an unexpected choice at the Blooming Rose for him to realise that he would also like to do many things <i>to</i> Hawke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shuffling the Deck

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny has been hopping around my brain for so long now, I've finally decided to write it down.
> 
> Comments are love! <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric has a revelation.

Varric didn’t like the Blooming Rose much. It wasn’t that he disapproved, not in general. If anything, he was probably the most liberal-minded dwarf to ever have walked the streets of his beloved Kirkwall. And that was saying something, he mused as he watched from a corner of the main room as Denier twirled his beard at a prospective customer, only to shrug good-naturedly when the man went over to Cerimon, the elf, instead. There was no accounting for taste, Varric thought in a rare moment of dwarven solidarity. Or stinginess, for that matter. 

He leaned back in his too tall chair - not enough dwarven customers to merit proper seating, apparently - and decided to give his already late contact another ten minutes before he called the deal off. That might be for the best anyway. The man had insisted on meeting at the Rose, but he was clearly a fool if he considered a brothel that featured quite a few templars and very few dwarves an inconspicuous rendezvous location. And if Varric had anything in common with that bastard Bartrand, then it was that they gave fools a wide berth - and, since Hawke, the occasional crossbolt between the eyes. Varric’s mouth twitched a small smile and his hand automatically went to stroke Bianca where she sat against his chair, concealed from curious eyes.

What then was a reasonable and very busy dwarf doing in this place? He shifted in his seat, even more uncomfortable than before. It wasn’t the first time the question had popped up and he still didn’t have a good answer. He reached for the snifter of whiskey and watched the golden-brown liquid swirl and glint before taking a mouthful and feeling the pleasant burn in his throat and stomach. Well, at least the drinks were better than at the Hanged Man. Varric shook his head in disgust. He still wasn’t prepared to examine the real issue here, but he knew when he was being a coward. His neck prickled as he could practically feel the weight of Hawke’s frown. Suddenly fed up with this whole charade, he set the glass back on the table and made to leave, when he noticed that the voices around him had gone strangely hushed. In Varric’s experience that could mean only one thing these days: the Champion of Kirkwall had made an appearance. 

Sure enough, when he looked up, he saw Hawke’s broad back as he strode up to Madame Luisine. The madame’s attitude towards this particular customer had changed drastically since the first time they’d come here to investigate the disappearance of the Orleisan prick’s wife. That had been, what, six or seven years ago? This time there was no doubtful assessment, no hauteur. As Varric looked around, he saw that every single one of the prostitutes in the room was preening, puffing themselves up, trying to catch the Champion’s eyes. To his amusement, some of the patrons were doing the same thing. He’d have a good laugh about this with Hawke later. 

In the meantime, the man seemed to have come to an agreement with Madame Luisine and turned to scan the room. The preening and puffing went up a few notches. Chuckling, Varric slid off his chair, slung Bianca on his back and stood, momentarily undecided whether to exchange a few words with Hawke or to simply make his escape unnoticed. He had just decided to leave his friend to his own business, when he saw something that drove the air from his lungs as forcefully as a punch in the guts. Hawke was approaching Denier. Varric couldn’t make out what they were saying, couldn’t hear anything much over the roaring in his ears, but he didn’t have to, really, not when he saw the pleased smile light up Denier’s gem-like eyes and his sturdy hand rest in an entirely too familiar fashion on Hawke’s vambrace. The world around him grew fuzzy, just like that time when Anders had given him that strangely sweet potion before removing an arrowhead that had lodged itself deep in Varric’s shoulder. Only he didn’t remember this red tinge around the edges. Or the way his chest felt too tight, compressing his heart to the point of actual pain. He half expected to find Fenris standing behind him, having decided that he’d finally had enough of the funny dwarf. 

Varric realised he was staring at the door on the upper landing that had closed behind Hawke and his dwarven lover. He blinked. And blinked again. Huh. So this was why he didn’t like the Blooming Rose. 

Blindly reaching, he snatched the swifter from the table and drowned the remaining whiskey in one great gulp. The sudden heat helped to unclench his chest somewhat and he took a deep breath. Anger was still simmering under his skin, but there was more. A need that could no longer be ignored, something so alien to Varric and yet so intricately entwined with his sense of _Hawke_ that it took him a moment to put a name to it. Possessiveness, if you could believe it.

It hadn’t taken long for Varric to appreciate just how right he had been to follow his instincts to approach the Hawke siblings that day in Hightown. By the time they’d entered the Deep Roads he’d known that Hawke was the best friend he’d ever had. And afterwards, after Bartrand’s betrayal and Bethany’s death, Varric had realised that he would give his life for the man. Perhaps it was knowing that Anders and Fenris felt the same way that had Varric restrict his involvement in their short-lived love affairs to offering words of friendly caution. Perhaps it was his practical side, the one that pointed out possible issues of attraction and height difference. 

But now Hawke had dealt a new hand. Maker’s balls, he had shuffled the whole deck! Varric’s gaze drifted once more to the door behind which that dwarven floozie had taken his man. Bianca a reassuring presence at his back, Varric strode forward. He’d kept his cards close to his chest for long enough, so close, in fact, that he himself had only caught occasional, confusing glimpses. The time had come to lay them on the table and see what happened. 


	2. Calling the Bluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric is not a dream.

Hawke had his eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of strong, stubby fingers stroking his half-hard cock. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, propped up on his elbows, his hands curled into loose fists next to his naked thighs. Although he had quickly disposed of his armour, he was still dressed in his tunic, his breeches shoved down to his booted ankles. Denier had pointed out that there was no need to rush, Hawke had paid for an hour of his time and no-one would begrudge the Champion a little over-time, anyway. But Hawke had claimed an urgent appointment with Meredith and was grateful when the courtesan just shrugged and set about doing his business without further ado. 

A warm hand was travelling over his balls and Hawke groaned quitely, letting his legs fall apart a little wider to allow the clever fingers better access. 

“You like that, don’t you,” Denier murmured, and Hawke wished he wouldn't. It was hard enough to concentrate without the added distraction. With his eyes closed and his hands tucked safely away, Hawke felt restrained, but it helped keeping up the illusion. As long as he didn’t see, he could imagine smooth golden hair. As long as he didn’t touch, he could imagine a smooth shaved face. As long as he didn’t hear, he could imagine a smooth storyteller’s voice, saying-

“Get out.” 

Huh? That didn’t make any sense. Why would Varric- 

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing? This is a private room!” 

Denier’s voice cut through the pleasant haze of Hawke’s arousal. And now the warm hands were taken away. Hawke opened his eyes, the complaint dying on his lips when he saw Denier’s raised hands, his wide eyes, open mouth. With reflexes born from long practice, Hawk flipped over, lunging for his daggers, only to lose his momentum when he spotted the reason for Denier’s fear. 

“Oof,” he puffed, as he landed clumsily on his side. 

“Eloquent as always, Champion,” Varric commented dryly. His eyes briefly flickered over to Hawke, but in his hands Bianca didn’t waver, her nose pointed firmly at Denier’s heart.

“Varric,” Hawke wheezed, pushing himself back to a sitting position, regaining his bearings a little while his brain was still attempting to process the information of his best friend’s sudden presence in his bedroom. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but perhaps it can keep? I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”

He only realised that underlining that statement with a hand gesture was not the brightest idea when  Varric’s eyes followed his movement and the blood in Hawke’s body abruptly divided into Team Face and Team Cock. Even though his hands wanted to do the same, he quickly decided that covering his arousal was more important than hiding his embarressment. Which was just as well, because it allowed him a clear view of Varric’s face. The usually amiable expression had turned as sharp as one of Bianca’s bolts, and just as alarming. In the dim light of the room, Varric’s amber eyes were the colour of dark honey as they lingered on Hawke’s hands for a long moment, before travelling up his body. The air in Hawke's lungs was suddenly too hot, each shallow breath searing his throat, parching his mouth.

“Get out,” Varric growled again, the deep timbre of his voice sending shivers over Hawke’s skin. Varric’s eyes had him trapped as securely as one of those sticky spider traps he’d kept running into during his first few years in Kirkwall. But even when they’d faced that monstrous beast in the Deep Roads his heart hadn’t been thumping this hard and fast in his chest. He barely noticed Denier muttering something and hurrying from the room. At the soft click of the door closing, Varric looked away, breaking the spell. The relief Hawke felt was short-lived, however, as he became aware of just how hard he was now. And judging by the slight flush in Varric’s shaved cheeks, he was doing a poor job of hiding his condition. Luckily, Hawke had a lot of experience dealing with embarrassing situations. 

Summoning his most winning smile, he surreptitiously reached for one of the cushions spread liberally on the bed behind him and quickly dropped it into his lap. 

“So,” he began, “what’s new with you?” 

He cringed. As far as conversation starters went, this one was certainly amateur rank, a far cry from his usual, silver-tongued self. Which was why he couldn’t decide whether to be glad or insulted that Varric was ignoring him. The dwarf hadn’t slung Bianca on his back again, as was his usual fashion, but was setting her carefully down on a table. Hawke found his gaze drawn inexorably to the sturdy hand that was giving the crossbow a loving pat. Varric must have pulled off his gloves at some point, his short fingers looking like soft ivory in the candlelight, and Hawke wondered once again whether the years of handling Bianca as well as countless quills had left any calluses on his hands. What would they feel like on Hawke’s own skin? He shivered at the image and involuntarily pressed the cushion a little harder into his crotch. Maker, fantasising about his best friend had been bad enough, but having him stand not three paces away while his own knickers were hanging around his ankles was awkward. And dangerous.

He shifted his weight a little in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure on his too tight balls, only to have his cock rub against the deliciously soft fabric of the cushion. He barely managed to swallow a groan and learned that the Maker really hated him, because Varric chose that moment to turn around. Hawke caught the golden glint of a far too wide expanse of chest hair and could have wept. This was so unfair it wasn’t even funny anymore. Then again, Varric didn’t look like he was in a laughing mood either. 

His gaze as he came a step closer was so intense that Hawke had to look away, back to the hands that were now loosening the broad belt that held Varric’s coat together. Hawke stared, mesmerised, as with a precise, practiced shrug the coat slid off the broad shoulders and down heavily muscled arms, to land in a heap at Varric’s feet. Suddenly, it took all of Hawke’s concentration just to keep breathing as Varric took another step towards him. He had difficulty believing that this was happening. Surely, this must be a dream! Possibly the best dream he’d ever had, but still certainly Fade material. The real Varric was never this quiet, for one-

“So, I didn’t know you were into dwarves,” Varric said in a conversational tone even while he was deftly tugging on the knot in his cloth belt.

I’m into _you_ , Hawke wanted to say, but didn’t dare. Suddenly he had a hard time fighting the hysteria bubbling in his throat. Here he was, sitting half-dressed on a rented bed, his hard cock seeping quietly but incessantly into a brothel cushion, his hands itching to touch the golden fuzz now just within his reach. And there was Varric, his best friend, right here with him, at his side as always, no matter how insane the situation they found themselves in. His best friend. Undressing before his very eyes. And finally it all clicked into place in Hawke’s brain and just like that the panic was gone, taking with it all his doubts and all awkwardness. Him and Varric, what could be more familiar, more right? It seemed that the time for coyness was finally over. 

Warmth spreading from his chest through his whole body, pulling his face into a wide, happy grin, he looked, really looked for the first time, at Varric. Only now did he notice the wariness lurking behind the dark eyes, poorly concealed by the dwarven bluster, the blunt, nimble fingers nestling at the rich cloth rather than unknotting it. 

“Varric,” he breathed, leaning forward, his free hand digging into the front of a soft dwarven tunic, gently pulling him that final step closer. “Varric,” he murmured again, eyes fluttering shut as the quick breath of his best friend washed over his skin. Then, blunt fingers dug into his thighs, just above his knees, as if for support, and he finally let go of the cushion, cupping a smooth jaw, his fingertips brushing against hair that was just as silky as he had imagined. Hawke released a contented sigh.

"M'not too wild about Orzammar," he murmured, foreheads touching now. "Crazy about my trusty dwarf, though."

A soft "good" brushed against his mouth, before it was claimed by warm, insistent lips.  


	3. Revealing the Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Maker puts angst before play.

For a moment, relief so vast it left him giddy and slightly disoriented washed over Varric, and all he could do was hang on to Hawke, his fingers digging into strong thighs while his lips clung to the scratchy softness that was Hawke’s mouth. Hawke’s pliant and unmistakably willing mouth, thank the Maker. Varric might have been a world-wise dwarf, but stripping in front of his closest friend had been one of those mad schemes that seemed like a good idea at the start, but quickly lost their appeal when the brain caught up and pointed out all the ways this could go terribly wrong. And while Varric’s resolve to show Hawke the error of his ways had only hardened at the sight of Denier’s touching what he shouldn’t, he had realised all too soon that he wasn’t at all prepared for the eventuality of Hawke’s rejection. He had pushed on nonetheles, his courage bolstered by Hawke’s heated gaze, his compelling words, but it wasn’t until the eager lips touched his own that Varric felt ready to believe it. Hawke wanted this. Wanted him.  

Varric groaned deep in his throat, sliding his hands into the mop of dark hair even as Hawke let go of his tunic, long arm circling around Varric’s back instead, drawing him closer. Varric went without hesitation, melting into the kiss.

Then a warm tongue darted over his lips and Varric’s whole body suddenly tingled the way it did whenever he stood too close to one of Anders’ electricity spells. But the gentle intrusion into his mouth was already driving all thoughts beyond _Hawke!_ and _yes!_ from his mind, and for a while he gave himself over to the sensation of Hawke’s exploring tongue, the rich texture of the carefully groomed beard under his fingertips, the softness of the skin on Hawke’s temple and behind his ears. He was dimly aware of a warm palm on his chest and leaned into the touch, a smile tugging on the edge of his awareness as long fingers carded through his chesthair, only to gasp in surprise when his nipple was pinched, not hard enough to hurt, but firmly enough to send a spike of arousal straight into his cock. 

Hawke’s teeth flashing through his dark beard, he made a striking image of the cat who ate the canary, but behind his eyes swirled a jumble of emotions Varric couldn’t interpret, not when his own ability to think was so seriously hampered by his growing arousal. Not to mention his stupid heart, which was doing its best impression of said canary, fluttering lightly in his chest. Luckily, a lifetime in Kirkwall had taught Varric to operate on instinct alone if necessary, a skill that had come in handy more often than he cared to remember ever since Hawke had stepped into his life and began dragging him along on his hair-raising escapades. _Never a dull moment with this one around_ , Varric thought fondly as his hands found their own way down the sides of Hawke’s neck, over the cloth stetching across his tense shoulders until they rested squarely on the broad chest that was usually covered by protective plate, right at Varric’s eye-level. His stomach did a strange little flip at the quick, steady heartbeat under his palms and his voice dropped to a low, possessive growl when, fisting his hands in Hawke’s tunic, he tugged, once. “Off.”

Hawke complied immediately and Varric felt a fresh flush of desire course through him. Hawke’s skin was very pale and surprisingly unmarked for a man who attracted trouble like a mabari found fleas. Maybe there was something to say for wearing armour, after all, no matter how questionable some of Hawke’s choices were fashion-wise.

Hawke was smirking at him. “Like what you see?” he drawled, but Varric thought he detected a slight catch at the end, a quiver that belied his roguish swagger.

“I can’t deny that your looks improve the less you wear,” Varric replied, running his fingertips appreciatively over the smattering of faint freckles on Hawke’s shoulders, then down over his pectorals to his flat stomach. A shudder went through Hawke’s body and Varric was itching to go further, to touch where he hadn’t dared take a good look yet, but he stopped, his hands pressed lightly against Hawke’s ribs. Something wasn’t right. The man was still too tense. Varric looked up and found Hawke staring at him, searching.  

“What is it?” Varric asked, lifting a hand to gently stroke where Hawke’s skin usually crinkled into an intricate web of laughter lines, now drawn so taut they were near invisible. Hawke’s eyes fluttered shut, but only for a moment. His larger hand rose to cover Varric’s own and guide it to his mouth. Pressing a prickly kiss into Varric’s palm, he seemed to relax a little.

“I don’t know,” he laughed softly, a warm puff of air against Varric’s skin. “It’s probably ridiculous.”

“No doubt,” Varric replied with a fond smile. Laughter was good. A Hawke who was overthinking things was not. Better not to give him the chance. “So,” he said, finally stepping over the barrier of the breeches that trapped Hawke’s ankles and into the intimate circle formed by his legs, forcing the man to straighten up and out of his far too protective hunch. Never losing eye-contact, Varric wrapped the fingers of his free hand around the root of Hawke’s hard cock gave it one, firm stroke. “Why don’t you tell me all about it _after_ I’ve fucked you well into next week?” 

Hawke’s grip turned into a hard squeeze as he exhaled harshly in surprise, his erection twitching in Varric’s hand. Satisfied, Varric gave it another long, deliberate stroke, and another, twisting his wrist when he reached the crown, spreading the liquid forming there over Hawke’s silky skin. Hawke was staring at him, wide-eyed, small gasps falling from his slightly bruised, half-open mouth, and Varric felt his own cock filling out rapidly. Keeping up the rhythm of his hand, he leaned in, trying to claim Hawke’s lips once more, but the hand on his chest held him back. 

“Varric, stop. Please.” There was no force behind the touch or the words, but he couldn’t ignore the pleading note in Hawke’s voice. Damn it all, the man was still thinking. Uncomfortably aware of his own cock straining against his breeches, Varric loosened his grip on Hawke, but couldn’t bring himself to break the contact entirely. Eventually, he settled for a hipbone, wondering absently if Hawke would mind his sticky fingers. He had turned out to be more hygienic than expected, after all. But that small worry had nothing on the unease growing in Varric’s chest, making it difficult to breathe. What if Hawke was having second thoughts about this? _Maker, no, please_. Hawke’s friendship had always meant the world to Varric, but going back to it now, after having had but a small taste of what could be? He didn’t think he could do it. He just couldn’t. 

“Varric?” 

Varric mustered as much nonchalance as he could, but his voice quavered traiterously as he asked, “What is it you want, Hawke?”

“You.” The answer came so quickly, Varric couldn’t suppress the hope exploding in his chest. Some of it must have shown, because a moment later, large hands were framing his face and warm lips were briefly pressed to his. Maker, but he was already getting addicted to the pinpricks that always accompanied Hawke’s kisses. 

“I’m right here,” he replied, a little breathless. 

For some reason that only served to distress Hawke. His hold on Varric’s face tightened and for a few moments he was obviously struggling with something in his mind. Despite the frantic pounding of his heart, Varric schooled himself into complete stillness, allowing Hawke the time he required to say whatever he needed to say. 

“I want you, Varric,” he began finally, “I want you so much…” His eyes were boring into Varric’s, willing him to believe. And while Varric was happy to oblige, he recognised a catch when he saw one.

“But?” he prodded. 

“But-“ Hawke took a deep breath, then blurtet out, “You’re my family!”

“What?” It happened rarely, but Varric was non-plussed. He was feeling vaguely flattered and mostly confused. And, as per usual, Hawke wasn’t helpful at all.

“Varric, almost since the day we first met, you’ve been like a brother to me. And with Bethany gone and my mother… Varric, you’re all the family I have left! Don’t you see?”

No, he didn’t see. But he was trying. “So,” he said, nose wrinkled with scepticisim, “you’re thinking this, _us_ ”, he waved his hand between them for emphasis, “would be, what, like incest?”

“No!” Hawke cried, horrified, and Varric breathed a sigh of relief. That would have been weird. 

“So, what then?” he asked, determined to get to the root of Hawke’s hang-ups and deal with them once and for all. As far as he was concerned, they were wasting precious time. Time that would be much better spent between the sheets. Then a thought occurred to him and he grimaced. “Don’t get me wrong, Hawke, I do love you, but given my experience with brothers, I’d much prefer being your lover, thank you very much. It seems to be… healthier.”

A moment later, Varric found himself engulfed in a bear hug that had him pressed against a warm body shaking with silent laughter. He allowed himself a small sigh, before circling his arms around Hawke’s broad back, patting it clumsily. The man would be the death of him yet. But with the scent of Hawke surrounding him strong enough to taste and the pressure of an interesting hardness against his belly, Varric didn’t really feel like complaining.

After all, laughter was good.


	4. Royal Flush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sweet lovin' is had by all.

Being possessed of the hands-on mentality of all dwarves, Varric wasn’t going to waste an opportunity when it presented itself. Trailing down Hawke’s naked back, he grabbed the firm butt in both hands and _pulled_ , his erection weeping with joy as it ground, hard, alongside its fellow. Hawke exhaled on a choked groan, his breath hot and loud against Varric’s ear, hips edging forward for more contact. Varric happily repeated the maneuver, savouring the feeling of soft skin and clenched muscle under his hands, the warmth growing slick between their chests, Hawke’s heart hammering against his own. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Reluctantly, Varric attempted to create some space between them, only to be pulled in again by a strong grip on his hips. A puff of laughter escaped him, half-startled, half-pleased. Admittedly, a handsy Hawke was nice. Just counter-productive at the moment.

“Don’t stop, Varric, please.” 

Varric would have felt smug at the complete reversal of Hawke’s tune if the man hadn’t begun to plant sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along his neck, nosing at the hem of his tunic for better access to his shoulder, his need so obviously matching Varric’s own.  

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, breaking out in goose-bumps as a warm tongue lapped over his collar bone, the links of his heavy gold chain clinking softly together. With Hawke’s large hands kneading his butt and his erection trapped and crushed between their bodies, it was almost too much to bear, even for a dwarf. Already the pressure was building dangerously behind his balls. “Hawke,” he gasped with more than a hint of desperation. 

“Hmm?” Hawke hummed as he licked a moist path up Varric’s throat to the juncture of his jawbone. 

“Hawke!” Varric chuckled helplessly even as he cupped Hawke’s head in both hands. “Will you hold still for just a second!”

Hawke made a non-committal noise, but Varric could feel the smile spread against his palms. Bringing his mouth close to Hawke’s ear, he dropped his voice to a low rumble.

“I want to do very filthy things to you, my friend. And when we’re done, I’ll want to do it again. And again.” He drew back a little to better gauge Hawke’s reaction. Thanks to his dwarven ancestry, he had no trouble spotting Hawke’s dilated pupils, the pure want shining from his eyes, even in the dimly lit room. And yet, Hawke made no move towards him, only his gaze snapped to Varric’s mouth as he wet his suddenly dry lips. The story-teller in him revelled in the rapt attention, the perfect audience. He made a small pause to collect himself before finishing, “But none of this will happen if you make me come in my breech-”

Hawke, who had been quivering like a too taut bowstring, exploded into action. Swallowing the last syllable in a searing kiss, his hands divested Varric of his tunic in a flurry of movement. Varric was still reeling under the assault of Hawke’s mouth, _Maker, the man can kiss!_ , as fingers made nimble from years of disarming traps and picking locks undid his belt and the strings on his trousers in record time. The soft cloth slid down his legs and Varric only had a moment to register the comparatively cool air of the room as his cock sprang free at last, before it was wrapped in strong warmth. He groaned into Hawke’s open mouth as a second hand surrounded his balls, tugging lightly. _Maker’s breath!_

Hawke had switched to trailing kisses along his chin, his jaw, and Varric was grateful for the chance to fill his lungs with some very necessary air. He tensed as Hawke shifted under him, his fingers digging white marks into the man’s shoulders as their cocks slid against each other, hard and silky, hot and dripping. Then a large hand encircled them both, stroking them together, and Varric tipped forward, giving over to the sheer pleasure of his senses overloading. His forehead resting against Hawke’s collarbone, the strong scent of arousal was overwhelming in the confined space between their bodies, the friction of skin on skin on skin a relentless tapestry of bliss, punctured by the soft moans rumbling in Hawke’s chest, vibrating in Varric’s ears and under his skin. 

Lost in sensation, it took Varric a moment to register that Hawke had let go of them and was murmuring in his ear. “-rric. Hey.” Varric blinked, noticing with dismay that a faint ribbon of drool was crawling down towards Hawke’s nipple. He hastily brushed it away and Hawke chuckled warmly. How was the man so composed when Varric felt like his brain had taken leave of absence? When he glanced up, however, Hawke looked just as devastated as Varric felt. His hair dishevelled, his mouth red and bruised, it was his eyes, wide and dark and gleaming with a predatory light, that made Varric choke with want. 

Hawked seemed to have waited for just that. Without taking his eyes off Varric, he shimmied backwards up the bed until he lay flat on his back, all long lines and glorious nakedness, his legs bent at the knees, falling wide open, mirroring the blatant invitation in his heavy gaze. His feet, where they were resting on the edge of the mattress, were still booted and bound by his breeches. Varric would later have no memory of this, but somehow he must have managed to rid Hawke and himself of their remaining clothes, because an instant later he was crawling up between long, naked legs, stopping only when his nose bumped against Hawke’s already tight balls. Something flickered in Hawke’s eyes and Varric smiled. While words were arguably his forte under any circumstances, he was wise enough to know that some situations called for simple, plain actions. 

Deeply inhaling the heavy musk that surrounded him so thickly it was almost tangible, he flattened his tongue and licked a broad strip up Hawke’s balls, over the vein running along the underside of his cock, to the flushed head, where he lapped up the drop of clear fluid that had gathered there. Hawke’s groan was long and deep as his hip angled upwards, closer. Varric grinned, satisfied, before he circled the base of Hawke’s cock with one hand, using the other to steady himself, and sucked him into his mouth. An instant later, long fingers stroked over his hair, petting him almost shyly. With his mouth full, Varric could only make an encouraging grunt which earned him a bucking of Hawke’s hips that drove his cock a little further than Varric would have thought possible. He choked for a moment but then continued his ministrations at a shallower angle, swirling his tounge against Hawke’s shaft in compensation. The hand on his head grew more confident. After some tugging, the leather thong at the back of his head came undone. His scalp prickled uncomfortably as his hair fell loose, bending the roots in unfamiliar directions, but the discomfort was quickly forgotten when Hawke caught a few strands between his fingers and stroked them reverently. 

“Varric…”

Letting Hawke’s slick cock slip from his mouth, he looked up to find the man staring at him with dark, hungry eyes. A large hand cupped the back of his head and Varric was tugged, not too gently, up and up until his mouth was devoured in another scorching kiss. Before he could respond properly, however, Hawke pulled his head back, just far enough to treat Varric to the full blast of his fierce gaze.

“Fuck me,” he growled. And Varric almost came on the spot. 

For the first time in memory, words failed him. All he could manage was a breathless, “Maker, yes!” before claiming Hawke’s mouth once again with more passion than he had believed himself capable of. He finally drew away as he felt Hawke squirming under him, long arm stretching, then something cool and smooth was pressed against his wrist. A vial. 

“As you wish, messere,” he smirked and took the small bottle from Hawke’s hand. While he would have loved to nip and suck on every inch of warm, pale skin on his way south, he felt that neither he nor Hawke had much patience left for gentle exploration. It would have to wait until next time. Oh, and there would be a next time. Plenty, if he had any say in it. 

Kneeling between Hawke’s legs again, he removed the stopper from the vial and poured some of the scented oil on his fingers. He rubbed them together until the oil had warmed to body temperature, then reached out and wrapped one hand around Hawke’s cock, the other around his balls. Under Hawke’s sharp gaze, he began to stroke and squeeze and tug until the man was squirming in his grip. Applying a little more of the oil, he let his fingers slide behind Hawke’s balls, rubbing the sensitive skin there. Hawke’s legs fell wider, opening up with no reserve, offering himself completely to Varric. Finding it difficult to breathe around the sheer affection suddenly lodged in his throat, Varric grabbed the cushion that hadn’t done much to preserve Hawke’s modesty before and maneuvered it under the man’s back. 

Parting the firm butt-cheeks with one hand, he ran a finger over the tight pucker hidden between them, savouring the shudder that ran through Hawke’s body at his touch. He circled his oiled fingertip again and again, pressing against the entrance, always stopping short of pushing past the ring of muscle until Hawke groaned a desperate, “Please, Varric!” 

Instantly, Varric complied, pressing his first finger inside in one smooth motion. He gave Hawke a surprised look and was treated to the rare sight of the Champion blushing. 

“I always, ah, ready myself before I, uhm, before I come… here,” he faltered as Varric’s expression darkened. The mere idea of Hawke preparing himself for somebody else had Varric’s blood boiling. In an instant, the possessiveness that had brought him here in the first place had returned, and with a vengance. 

Fighting for composure, he pushed in a second finger, and then a third, moving them experimentally in and out. When he was satisfied that Hawke was thoroughly loosened and slick enough to take him, he removed his fingers and positioned himself, the tip of his cock bumping against the rim of Hawke’s eager body. It took all of his self-discipline not to just shove inside and take what he so desperately wanted. But there was something he wanted more. Needed more. 

“Hawke,” he said, closing his eyes to take a deep breath and steady himself. When he opened them again, Hawke was looking at him as anxiously as he had ever seen him. Everything in Varric screamed to touch him, reassure him, protect him, but he wasn’t finished yet. “Before we do this, I think you should know that I don’t take these things lightly. Maker's balls, I don’t take _you_ lightly, even if it may not always seem that way.” Varric realised that he was rambling and brought his mind back on track. “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t play this game very often. Practically never, really. But when I do, I play for keeps.”

A Rivaini sunrise couldn’t be brighter than the smile that was spreading over Hawke’s face. A moment later, Varric found himself engulfed in another one of Hawke’s bear hugs. He was quickly released however when Hawke took his face in both hands and gave him a surprisingly tender kiss, his eyes shining with sincerity.

“Thank the Maker,” he said, relief so very obvious in his voice and clearly reflected in the slump of his shoulders. “All my talking about family earlier? _That’s_ what I wanted to say. Varric,” he said earnestly, pressing another kiss on his lips, and then another. “I’ll do anything not to lose you. Even if it means quitting this here and now.”

“Who said anything about quitting,” Varric growled, but his heart was light. Without warning, he snapped his hips forward, upward, driving himself deep inside Hawke’s body, pushing a moan out of both their throats. The angle was awkward with Hawk still clamped around his upper body, his cock rubbing a wet pattern into the skin of Varric’s belly, but it was glorious. Varric’s hands moved to clutch Hawke’s butt as he rocked into his tight heat in an unsteady rhythm, distracted and delighted by the nonsense Hawke was babbling and panting in his ear. It didn’t take long before the words became erratic moans and Hawke’s body stiffened, shuddered, and with a low groan spilled his seed between them. The sudden vice-like grip around his cock was too much for Varric. After only two more deep thrusts, the tension in his balls finally exploded in a burst of ecstasy as he emptied himself deep inside the truest friend he'd ever had. 

For a minute they just sat there, panting, clinging to each other until the weight of the human’s body became too much for Varric. With a small shove to his ribs, he pushed Hawke off, who landed bonelessly on his back, a wide, goofy smile on his face. Varric shook his head in mock exasperation and went looking for something to clean themselves with. Luckily, the Rose’s services included a washbasin, soft cloths and even some scented soap. 

Varric left the soap and, after cleaning himself, took care of Hawke as well, since the man gave no indication that he wanted to move that ridiculously large body of his anytime soon. After making sure that Bianca was still comfortable, Varric scrambled back up the bed and lay down next to Hawke’s sprawled form. It took some wresting and cursing, but he finally managed to pull the blanket from under Hawke’s dead weight and spread it over them both. Yet unsure of how much post-coital snuggling he was up to, Varric settled on running a hand through Hawke’s hair, enjoying the soft strands sliding through his fingers. One jerky shift, and a long arm flopped over his waist, holding him lightly.

“And here I seem to remember you saying I was too high-maintenance for you,” came Hawke's voice, muffled by the sheets. “Not that I’m complaining,” he added quickly, his arm around Varric’s waist squeezing a little harder. 

Varric chuckled and raised his free hand to trace his fingertips from Hawke’s wrist, over the fine dark hairs on his arm, to the toned muscles of his shoulder and back again, feeling the man relax with each stroke. 

“Yes, well,” he said, still smiling, “turns out I’m pretty crazy about the Champion of Kirkwall, after all.”

Hawke’s hold on him tightened once more as the man drew himself closer, burying his face in Varric’s neck. “Good thing that I’m not turned off by crazy, then,” he purred, beard tickling Varric’s sensitive skin with every word. But Varric wouldn’t have moved away even if the bed had been on fire. Instead, he turned his face to press an awkard kiss onto the crown of Hawke’s head and closed his eyes. 

“Indeed,” he murmured and, his body heavy with contented exhaution, his nose buried deep in the dark hair of his friend and lover, he was asleep in moments.


End file.
